“Don’t put the key to your happiness in someone else’s pocket – keep it in your own.”

Sometimes Mike gets on my last nerve. Stands on it and jumps up and down.

I am home with him probably 23 hours a day….at his beck and call. He has ANOTHER six weeks of recuperation time (there will be a back surgery sandwiched in there, too.) He has lost 70 pounds so I am constantly fixing some high caloric thing for him to eat.

He can’t lift anything heavier than a cup of coffee, so I’m doing all the cleaning, moving, handling the business, juggling paying bills, banking, dealing with the renters (it is ALWAYS something and the calls come in at 9:30 at night or at 0’dark thirty in the morning), arranging for construction material delivery….it is a lot of demanding work. I do get out several times a day to walk the dogs. That is the extent of my life right now.

I know it will get better.

So here is the burr under my saddle today.
Our entry door is in a little alcove on the street. Flanking our door are two showroom windows for the bridal shop, whose entrance IS ON THE CORNER. Trouble is, customers walk up to my door and yank on it. There is a discreet sign in two languages, directing them to the business door and saying that this is a private entrance. (Maybe it is too discreet.)

Obviously, no one yanking my door can read.

SO I had just gotten back from running around town in this horrific heat, dragged the groceries up the stairs, put them away, started lunch and had a heap of laundry to fold and the dogs go crazy. Rocket in particular got wound up and would not shut up and Mike could not bring himself to go down the stairs to fetch her back. He spent the time she was shrilly barking yelling at me to get my dog.

Then he came in and hollered at me for ten minutes about how he’s GOING to put up the wrought iron door. He’s GOING to put in a solid wood door. Blah blah blah….just not today. The truth is, I’ll go to the shop yard and find the wrought iron door and the wood door and load them in the car by myself, cart them to the downstairs entry, take out the glass door, install both doors AND weld the security screen to the inside of the wrought iron. BY MYSELF.

So despite the fact that I understand he feels like crap, there is no reason for ME to be yelled at.
So I’m going to find myself in rooms he is not in and have nothing to say to him.

He will eventually apologize, but boy! am I mad.

The only reason he has been home all of these difficult months and not in a rehab place is that he promised he wouldn’t be screaming at me.

If I wanted to be screamed at, I would have stayed with Jackson.

Isn’t it funny how it only takes on little thing to push me Right. Over. The. Edge?

I’m not one of those wives who spend time weeping “OH, what will I dooooooo if something happens?” No crying here.
I know exactly what I’d do.

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